I know I was shouting, but when Hugh shook me, I screamed. I screamed so hard that I scared even myself.
I cowered under the blanket to protect myself.

That dream was about Andrew, but other than I was frightened, I don’t remember what it was about.
I got up, went to bathroom, then back to bed.

Soon I was dreaming again.

Four or five-year old Andrew was there. Both my husband and I were in the room.
Even in the dream I knew that Andrew was dead and that this was a gift from him and I needed to take full advantage of it.
I hugged and kissed him as I used to when he was little. As he grew older he got impatient with all my hugging and kissing. But in the dream he was happy to let me hold him. I could smell his breath, his hair, I could feel his soft, warm skin, his ultra-kissable sweet-beloved face under my lips.

In his teens his hair grew darker, thick and wavy, but when he was younger he had straight, ash blond hair.

Next Andrew was on Hugh’s lap, his face red and puffed by crying.

“Please don’t cry darling, why are you crying?” I asked, mentally.
“I cry because you cry. I cry because you are suffering because of me.”
“Please don’t, my darling,” I fretted. “We are okay, we are okay. Please be happy, I want you to be happy.”

Then Andrew is older. He looks pale, his face is slightly swollen, he has a crutch and leans his back against the wall. It takes me a moment to realize it’s him. I am surprised by his appearance.

He holds a piece of paper but before giving it me, he explains something at length. I am not able to catch or hear everything he says. It appears that there was only one page left in the book and he is holding it.
The writing seems to be scribbles, hard to read.

She said she’d come, but at the last-minute she didn’t come to the Ball.
Why?
No explanation.